Thoughts on political, economic, social developments in Eastern Mediterranean countries from someone who has spent the last 25 years living and working in the area.

Thursday, 4 May 2017

Forget Politics For A Moment. Food Is The Real Passion In Most Of France.

LIBOURNE,
France – This town in the heart of the Gironde region of southwestern France
sits on the bank of the broad Dordgone River and is surrounded by some of the
most expensive vineyards in the world.
Names like Petrus, Cheval Blanc, or Figeac are just some of the names
that attract very deep-pocketed wine buyers from all over the world.

But
most of the time vineyards are a sedate sort of business. Major activity seems
to come in spurts at different times of the year, and there is almost a
reverential attitude toward the vines. The vines and the red gold that comes
from them are discussed in the hushed tones that one might expect in a church
or a Swiss bank vault. But then again, you might have to open that vault to buy
a bottle or two.

No,
for real activity and a real sense of La
France Profonde – Deep France -- one must visit the open air market that
takes place three times a week in the arcaded center of the town. In this
market and others just like it across the country you get a real sense of what French people consider important – food. It’s
not just food, however. If the spirit moves you can pick up a nifty hat, a pair
of shoes, a shirt, a couple of plates or just about anything you can think of.

Food markets have been held in this square for centuries

Seeing
the food is one thing. Actually getting what you want, however, is something
altogether more difficult. You are competing against experienced French
housewives with massive carrier bags or pulling trolleys the size of your basic
Range Rover intent on getting that luscious looking entrecôte you had your eye on. Their strategy and aggression would
put the French national rugby scrum to shame. Just as you think you have caught
the eye of the butcher a sharpish elbow to the ribs takes you momentarily out
of the game. A few more incidents like that and you might just join their
husbands who have long ago learned the futility of offering an opinion on a
certain vegetable or piece of meat. They have now been relegated to a special
section where they sip their coffee while waiting to be told where to go next.

Good luck getting that cut of meat you wanted

And
the food is discussed with real passion. The different cuts of meat or poultry,
the quality of the animal or what it ate are discussed with an almost religious
fervor that the Jesuits would appreciate. And the debate is no less fervent for the
fruits and vegetables. “Well, of course,
you do understand, don’t you, that while the Spaniards do produce strawberries,
one isn’t quite sure exactly where they come from or how they’re grown.” The stall holder will then inform you of the
provenance of his own strawberries and how they come from a long line of good
respectable French strawberries.

If you don't want the meat there's always the daily fresh fish catch

And
then there are the cheeses. None less than Charles de Gaulle moaned about the
difficulty of running a country that had at least 246 different types of
cheeses. He had a point. Just about all of those varieties, and then some, are
on display, and you are encouraged to sample the subtle – very subtle –
differences between this brie or that brie, Comté aged for different
lengths of time, and many, many more.

Is this what makes France difficult to govern?

Now that the taste buds in your
mouth are clanging like church bells you move on to the shell fish. Huge
baskets are over-flowing with oysters, clams, or scallops from the Bay of
Arcachon about an hour away on the Atlantic coast. You think about buying some.
And then you think again about your skills of opening an oyster without slicing
off at least one of your fingers. Best leave that task to the experts.

While my wife is off haggling about the
price of fresh asparagus – white or green -- in her perfect French, I head to
the nearby stalls filled with fresh paté. My French isn’t awful, but I have to
admit that the names of some of the ingredients of these patés escaped me. I
just nodded sagely, took the offered sample, tried not to gag and moved smartly
onto the instantly recognizable foie
gras.

By this time your shopping bag is
feeling a little heavy and it’s time to look around for a friendly patisserie that would offer a chair and
a coffee to go with that nice looking, fresh pain au chocolat. The first
one went down so well that it had to be followed with another. Finally, it was
time to lug the stuffed shopping bag, now containing the obligatory baguette or two, back to the car and
head home.

Now the real challenge begins. Just
what do you do with all your purchases that seem to include enough food to feed
several small countries? Well, this is France, after all. And figuring out what
to do with food is something they do very, very well.

1 comment:

Christine
said...

I smiled and nodded when reading this - it could so well apply to my local market. When I visited during the time I lived in England (20 years...), I realized that I had lost my 'market-elbow' technique but luckily for me I could rely on my mother to use hers! And the Spanish Strawberries... ah yes, of course. They have been a bone of contention or perhaps I should say an apple of discord between the French and the Spanish ever since Spain joined the EU. In fact the flooding of French markets with Unfairly-Produced-And-Tasteless strawberries, condemning honest and hard working French producers to certain bankruptcy, was quoted as an argument against Spain's accession. Then, quite a few years ago, a French TV programme revealed that Spanish strawberries were grown in terrible conditions, almost on rockwool as I remember being told by shocked relatives. And the workers were treated like slaves. True, exaggerated or false, the effect was the same - many vowed not to touch these poisonous strawberries ever again. And still don't.

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About Me

I worked as a fund manager and investment banker in Turkey and the Middle East for 25 years. Over the years I have travelled extensively throughout the region and have met many of the leading government officials, business and cultural leaders. I am married to a Greek and now divide my time between London, Turkey, and an island in the Aegean.